August 18, 1918: A Dartmouth Doctor in WWI

August 18, 1918

It was a beautiful morning. I awoke about 5 a.m. my feet cramped and sore. I had slept all night in my boots because my baggage did not come and consequently I could not get them on and off again. There was no more sleep for me and I washed up and lighted my pipe. 

After breakfast Nat Mason and I started for a walk about the grounds. About the time we had started we met the officer in charge of the enlisted men and he told us that during the night English women had climbed over the wire fence and entered the tents of the men and that he had been up all night watching.
Without question the morals were lax in this town as many of the officers were approached by the women. 

Once outside the camp things were quiet and peaceful and there was a sense of freedom we had not felt since leaving home. The grounds were natural and fairly well cared for. There was no living thing in sight except the birds and an occasional squirrel.

We went back to camp about 10 a.m. and found that orders had been given to have our baggage on the street at 1 p.m.
We were on the street at the time ordered and stood there until 3 p.m. when we lined up to march. Where to no one knew and I doubt if anyone cared. We were filled with disgust. The food had been nauseating, we were not allowed to buy food at the canteen, we had been treated like children instead of being treated like men of our rank. No other army in Europe would have stood for the things we were forced to submit to at this time and during the days that followed. 

At 3 p.m. we again put our 40 pounds on our backs, put our coats on our arms and marched back to the dock where we had debarked. It being Sunday there were more people on the street but they showed no evidence of enthusiasm, rather the air of toleration. Possibly however they were as enthusiastic as an Englishman can be. 

At 4.10 p.m. we arrived at the dock and at 5.20 we began to embark on the S.S. St. George. By 6 p.m. we were all aboard.
This relatively small channel boat was packed to is utmost.
One could hardly move without watching his step. Packed like sardines was no exaggeration.
We were given life preservers that were black with dirt and the smell was worse than the appearance. In fact they were so filthy that I would have preferred taking my chances but orders were to be obeyed.

Things were most active during those few hours. Men were coming aboard, baggage was being brought on and freight was rapidly loaded. We had no idea where we were going and I think no one cared in particular where we were going. What ever our destination it could be no worse than what we had been through for the past 24 hours. 

During all the excitement of getting men and baggage aboard an officer came about assigning staterooms for the ranking officers. At the moment it seemed fortunate that I was to have a berth in a stateroom as there seemed to be no place where one could sleep except on the floor. A little later the crew of the ship came about offering their own room for $2.50 per bunk.

At 7.15 the boat sailed, convoyed by a destroyer. It was just at sunset and a most beautiful cool summer evening. As we left the dock we all went on deck and the cool air was so refreshing after the heat of the march from camp. Everyone began to feel better natured and we were interested in the activities of the other transports in the river and the beauties of the shore. There was constant signals on the part of the ship and signals from the shore. However they meant nothing to us. We were somewhat surprised that we should be convoyed when we were inside the submarine nets. 

This time we sailed down the river on the opposite side of the Isle of Wright and we surmised that our destination was Bolougne or Cherbourge – although it has been intimated that we were bound for Brest. 

At 8.30 p.m. we anchored at the mouth of the harbor, just inside the submarine nets two other transports had arrived ahead of us and there were two destroyers watching us. The signals between the ships, and probably land were constant.
We sat on deck until 11.15, talking, watching, and altogether enjoying the beauty of the whole thing, giving no thought to the possible danger. I was talking to Perkins just before we went below and said “This is the happiest lot of men I have seen for a long time, and here we are on the edge of the most dangerous night we have experienced, how do you account for it?” Perkins replied “I do not believe any of them give a damn.” I agreed.

At 11.15 we were all ordered from the decks. The boat was so crowded there was more or less commotion but as we went below we found almost every available space filled with the bodies of sleeping enlisted men. One had to exercise the greatest care in order to avoid stepping on them. The human smell was overpowering, almost nauseating.
With caution I reached the stateroom without stepping on anyone and found my three companions already asleep. The actual stench of that stateroom was so great that it was impossible to think of going to bed and I turned hoping to find some place where the air would permit me either to sit up or sleep. 

As I walked about there seemed to be no place where one could sleep with comfort so I decided to go into the dining room and sit up all night. As I went in I found that several men from my unit were there and there was some promise of getting a glass of beer but while we were waiting for the beer the lights suddenly went out. 

I seemed to be left in the position of sitting up all night in a chair, but while I was sitting in the dining room I had noticed that the upholstering behind the wall tables let down to make a bunk. Some of our officers had been assigned to these bunks but by chance one of them happened to be vacant. I knew I could not find my way to any part of the ship without stepping on some of the enlisted men so I made my way to the vacant bunk and clothes and all went to sleep. It was much like sleeping on a shelf but the air in the dining room was comparatively fresh.
I had not been asleep long before I was conscious of feeling someone shaking me and telling me I had his bunk. I told him to go to, turned over and went to sleep again. 

Sometime later I was conscious of the fact that the anchor was being hauled and that the boat was in motion but I promptly went to sleep again and did not wake until 3.15 a.m. when I was awakened by the dropping of the anchor. 

The dining room was still dark, the odor of the room was nauseating, I was conscious of the filthy life preserver about my neck. Most of the other men in the room were sleeping. I slid off the shelf where I had been sleeping and went on deck.
I went on deck and it was evident that we had anchored in some harbour. It was still dark and it was impossible to make out where we were. One by one the men came on deck and as the daylight appeared I recognized the harbour of Cherbourge, that I had seen in 1903.

It was such a relief to get out of the smelly ship that I remained on deck for the rest of the time aboard. 

At 5.30 we went below for breakfast and had oatmeal, bacon and eggs and coffee. The food was excellent and in fact we had supper the night before that was as good as anyone could ask for and the charge was three shillings. 

At 5.45 the anchor was hauled and at 6.30 we docked. At 7.20 the last man of our unit was off the ship. At this time there was little activity about the docks. The boats that were with us at Southampton Harbor were not here. Their destination probably was elsewhere although we were told the boat we sailed on was one of the fastest channel boats, capable of 25.9 knots per hour. 

At 7.30 a.m. we lined up again to march to another rest camp. Needless to say we were discouraged but we put our 40 pounds on our back and put our coats on our arms and cheerfully started on the march, in spite of the fact that the other officers were transported. Everything depended in France upon the “guts” of the C.O. 

Another rest camp was ahead of us and once more we felt like H— at the thoughts of another of these holes.
This one proved to be very much worse than the one at Southampton. 

From MS-397, Box 1, Folder 9. To read the diary in its entirety, visit Rauner Special Collections Library and ask to see the Harry Goodall papers (MS-397).

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August 17, 1918: A Dartmouth Doctor in WWI

August 17, 1918

It was a very pleasant day, warm but not uncomfortable.
Most of the men were at breakfast at 7.30 a.m. and according to orders we lined up at our station on deck at 8.30 prepared to debark. We stood there until 9.30. We had a 40 pound pack on our back, our heavy overcoat and rain coat on our arm.
While we stood there George Miller told us, in confidence, that the war was over and had we been four hours later in leaving New York we would not have sailed. This information was given him by one of the officers of the ship and was one of the many stories that were told us on our way from America to our final station in France. 

At 9.30 we began to debark. Tucker was at the head of the column. He was chewing tobacco and expectorating freely. Every few steps he would turn around and wave a newspaper to the nurses leaning over the side of the ship, and call out “Good bye girls” “Good bye sisters”.

On the side of the dock opposite the Olympic was the English transport, or channel boat St. George. We marched around the dock to where this boat was anchored and the story went about that we were to promptly embark on this boat and sail to France that evening. However we had no definite orders from Tucker. But as we stood about our baggage was taken aboard this boat and we were confident that we would sail that evening.

The careless air that was evident the night before seemed to disappear. Stories were everywhere that there had been unusual submarine activities the night before. Everyone seemed to be more keenly aware of the danger of crossing the channel and after a time this seemed to be a greater danger than crossing the ocean.

After standing more or less in line for an hour or so we were given the freedom of the docks, with orders not to leave. We wandered about the restricted place looking at the various signs of war and of greatest interest were the four vessels in the dry dock that had recently been submarined, one of them was the Armenia that had been torpedoed just before we left America. 

At noon time I began to get hungry and in looking about for food I started to go outside the limits of the docks, where an Englishman told me there was a restaurant. George Miller was in command at the time and I reported that I was going out for food. George said it was against orders and I asked him where Tucker was, intending to tell him I was going to get something to eat. Miller said Tucker had taken two of the younger officers and had gone to the very restaurant I had in mind, but had left orders that no one else was to leave the dock. 

McLean was with me and disregarding the order we went over to eat. Tucker saw us and was evidently displeased but said nothing. We had a very good lunch of ham and eggs, coffee, and some dry, hard black bread. To our surprise the charge was about 30 cents, less than half the cost of the same meal back home.
Most of the officers went without food and I never knew whether the enlisted men were fed or not, but if they were I can not imagine were they got the food. This was all unnecessary as there was evidently plenty of food. 

We went back and impatiently waited for action. At 2.30 we were told that we would not sail that night, owing to submarine activities, and that we were to go to a rest camp and sail the next night. We picked up our 40 pound packs and our coats, lined up and marched about four miles to the rest camp. 

Many other officers that sailed on the Olympic went to the same camp but insofar as I could see they were all transported by trucks, and if by any chance did walk their baggage was carried. Tucker never considered the comfort of his men in the slightest degree.

The road to the camp was through settled country and people were lined up to the sidewalks in places, heads were sticking out of the windows but there was no demonstration, only an occasional cheer. On the whole the people seemed sober and glum, quite a contrast to the cheerful ways of our own men.
Many of the women were in mourning, the civilian men for the most part elderly men. Practically all the children ran after us begging pennies. 

We arrived at the camp at 3.50 p.m.

Names mean little or nothing. We were told we were going to a Rest Camp, and we supposed it was a camp for the purpose of resting after the voyage but it was nothing of the sort. It could be more truthfully said to be a camp where one could not rest. Later we found that the English had established a series of camps where troops could be quartered while waiting for transportation. 

The experience here was not pleasing. All the officers of the unit were assigned to one barrack, not unlike those in our camps at home. It was fitted out with iron beds but the springs had seen hard service and on the whole the beds were very uncomfortable.
The place was not particularly clean.
As we went in Tucker exclaimed in a loud voice “This is a hell of a place to put officers.” His concern however was entirely personal. 

We were next directed to go to the Quartermaster and draw three blankets. Two of these we put over the uneven springs and the other over us. 

There was a very prompt order issued to the effect that no one would be permitted to leave the camp. This was another one of Tucker’s mean methods as all the officers not attached to our unit were permitted to go to town. 

Late in the afternoon the baggage came up but Bill Morrison and myself were unfortunate enough to have ours left behind. I asked Tucker permission to go and get soap, towels, etc but this was refused. Later Tucker took two of his favorites and went to town for the evening. 

However this cloud had its silver lining. Here we were all disgruntled and discouraged but we were rewarded – Homer Smith found that we could buy beer and whiskey at the canteen and when bed time came every one was in a much more cheerful state of mind.

The camp orders were that we should be in bed with all lights out by 10 p.m. – and we were. Tucker being out of camp and I being the senior the duty of enforcing discipline fell upon me. We were all in bed and the lights were out at 10 but the deviltry that went on after that hour was most amusing. Just about the time when the men had settled down Tucker and the officers with him came in and immediately lighted the lights. I called out in as stern a manner as possible “Put out those lights.” A voice called back this is Col. Tucker. I replied – “It makes no difference who it is the rules of the camp are that all lights shall be out at 10 and I am here to enforce the rules of the camp.” Instantly the lights went out, a laugh went around the barrack and Tucker did not speak to me the entire next day. 

From MS-397, Box 1, Folder 9. To read the diary in its entirety, visit Rauner Special Collections Library and ask to see the Harry Goodall papers (MS-397).

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A Dartmouth Doctor in WWI

August 16, 1918

This was the most interesting day of the voyage.

We awoke to find a perfect day and the sea absolutely calm. 
I was up at 6 a.m. and, according to instructions, had my baggage packed and on deck at 7 a.m. 

As I came on deck the coast of Ireland could be seen in the distance. Five destroyers were convoying us and at 7.30 a.m. a hydroplane and a dirigible picked us up. 

At 8.30 the Isle of Wright was close at hand, and we were so close to the shore that signs of life could be made out in the little town, said to be the town of Ventor. 
Between the boat and the coast, the top masts of a vessel could be seen sticking out of the water, said to have been submarined just a few days before. 

By this time the ocean was alive with activity. Two more dirigibles and an observation balloon attached to a chaser, two hydroplanes, and a number of small sub chasers had joined us. 
Our ship moved along very slowly, our course being made by mine sweepers. And all the time the band was playing on deck. 

It was a sight long to be remembered. It was evident that we were in very dangerous waters and it was also evident that all these other crafts, both water and air were there for the purpose of protecting us. 

One could hardly describe the sensations that one felt during the two hours that passed, from 8.30 up to the time that the ship passed over the submarine nets at Portsmouth Harbor, when the danger was over.

It was a wonderful sight, it was evident that we were in very dangerous waters, and we realized that the voyage was nearly over and that we were about to begin the days on the other side. We passed through the nets at 10.30 a.m. and anchored off Cowes at 11 a.m. It was said we could not proceed to Southampton on account of the tide.

We were permitted to take off our life preservers and move about the ship without restrictions. By this time it was very hot but heat was forgotten in watching the various activities of the harbor-submarines, air planes, hydro-planes, and all manner of small boats. 

At 4.30 we sailed up the river to Southampton, and docked at 6 p.m. 

The scenery all along the river is very beautiful and there were signs of war activity every where. 

From MS-397, Box 1, Folder 9. To read the diary in its entirety, visit Rauner Special Collections Library and ask to see the Harry Goodall papers (MS-397).

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A Dartmouth Doctor in WWI

August 14, 1918

Again the bed seemed to be the best place and it was 8 a.m. when I went on deck. 
Its as still cold and far from pleasant but it was not so rough. 
We were now in the submarine zone and we were ordered to remain on deck all day.

At noon we were said to be 800 miles from the Irish coast. That is we had gone far north to avoid submarines and that our course that day was south-east. 

All sorts of stories went about that morning. We had just escaped, the Germans had located us, the convoys had lost us etc. For the first time many seemed disturbed. 

In the early afternoon it became warmer and mush smoother and once more every one came on deck, many however looking decidedly green. By this time everyone seemed to have recovered his composure. 

At 3.15 p.m. we passed a steamer and there was an exchange of flash signals. However it meant nothing to us but it was interesting to watch. 

Dinner that evening was more jovial. Everyone seemed in good spirits again. Everything that had happened during the day had tended to frighten but now the ocean was smooth and everyone had regained confidence. But —at 8.15 Abandon ship drill sounded – just in the middle of jazz. It was a false alarm but the fear of God was written in many faces until it was known that there was no danger. 

After the drill was over all returned to the smoking room but the old gaiety had left and one by one they left and by ten o’clock very few were left.

Once more we were told to sleep with our clothes on with our preservers within arms length.
Taking everything into consideration this was the most exciting day of the voyage, and the only day in which sober thought was given to what might be in front of us. 

From MS-397, Box 1, Folder 9. To read the diary in its entirety, visit Rauner Special Collections Library and ask to see the Harry Goodall papers (MS-397).

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A Dartmouth Doctor in WWI

August 13, 1918

Cold, raw, rough, rain, very rough.
It was 8 a.m. when I came on deck. The breakfast did not taste good. There were comparatively few at breakfast. There were few enlisted men in sight.
It was a very quiet morning and very few were on deck. 
The band played as usual but no one seemed to enjoy it. 
It was a very quiet morning and enlivened to those of us on deck when the little bugler came out to sound “lunch”
It was more than he could stand and while giving the call he vomited through the bugle. 

Every one seemed miserable and to add to our discomfort we were told in the afternoon that we were approaching the submarine zone and we were instructed to keep our clothes on and not to remove our life preservers. 

A little later in the afternoon we were told that submarines had been reported by the wireless and that we had changed our course almost due North, and quite out of our course.

Even this did not inspire fear as I think most of the passengers were too sick to be concerned. 
That evening there were few in the smoking room. 
We played cards as usual and there were a few dancers but at 9 p.m. the smoking room was empty.

As we were going to bed Quackenboss and I agreed that it was just as well to take off our clothes and put our preservers on the chair and we did so. 

From MS-397, Box 1, Folder 9. To read the diary in its entirety, visit Rauner Special Collections Library and ask to see the Harry Goodall papers (MS-397).

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A Dartmouth Doctor in WWI

August 10, 1918

Up at 7 a.m. The first cool comfortable night for some time. Also a cold salt water bath, the first bath for some days. Very much rested this morning. 
The morning is cloudy and it did not clear during the day. In the morning the sea was calm an everyone seemed to be particularly happy. The lower deck was full of enlisted men who were laughing, fooling and having the time of their lives. Perkins and I walked about on deck for an hour then leaned over the rail watching the enlisted men  – such a happy lot of fellows little knowing what was ahead of them. 

The most striking thing to me was that we were without convoy and that the ship was zig zagging. This latter thing gave a distinct motion to the ship that one never feels under ordinary conditions. However it was not very unpleasant unless you got your nose under the ventilator to the galley and smelled the odor of onions coming up. 

Things went along nicely. We were all getting acquainted and much like a large family. A colonel of the regular army who was wearing a black arm band on his arm for his dear departed wife confided in me that there are a lot of damn fine women aboard. 
Later in the voyage he gets smitten with the same nurse that George Miller falls in love with. The sad thing is that when George has her the Col. comes up and takes her even when she is with George – by right of rank. 
When this is evident we take George to task at the dinner table much to his discomfort and after dinner George is found walking up and down in his stateroom with a photograph of his wife in his hand crying “Sweetheart you know I love only you.” 
Almost typical of the American in France. 

We went down to lunch at noon and about a half hour later the ocean played one of its famous tricks. A wind came up suddenly and smoothness was displaced by roughness. It was too much for the novice. One by one they left the table. 
I went on deck after lunch and looking down upon the enlisted men it was evident that all of the old joy had departed. Such as forloon [sic.] mess of men one could never hope to see. 
The spirit seemed to be taken out of everyone. 

At 4 p.m. the sea became quiet once more and every one soon regained their previous composure, and for the most part emphatically denying the fact that they had been sea sick.
That evening the smoking room was the usual seen [sic.] of gaiety.

From MS-397, Box 1, Folder 9. To read the diary in its entirety, visit Rauner Special Collections Library and ask to see the Harry Goodall papers (MS-397).

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A Dartmouth Doctor in WWI

No date – “The Voyage”

Sailed from New York on the S.S. Olympic at 8 a.m. Aug 8, 1918. Docked at Southampton at 6 p.m. Aug. 16, 1918.

We were fortunate in having one of the largest and fastest ships of the day. A ship 882.9 feet long, 92.6 feet broad and 104 feet deep. On the other hand it was one of the ships that the Germans swore they would get, and that was always in our minds.

We left New York under convoy but when we awoke and came on deck on the morning of the 10th. we found we were without convoy and it was not until the early morning of the 16th. that we were convoyed again. At First every one was disturbed but we were told that the ship was so fast that convoy was unnecessary.

Aside from the crew of the ship there were about 7000 persons aboard. This included the 349th. regiment, the 148th. infantry, officers and enlisted men of Base Hospital #51, many casual officers, and 200 nurses, including the nurses attached to Base Hospitals #35 and 48.

Taking everything into consideration this voyage was not very different from a voyage in peace times. It was my third voyage to Europe and the chief difference was to be found in a lack of discipline.

Our unit was assigned to some of the best staterooms on the ship. Major Quackenboss and myself occupied the Louis XV suite. We had a large stateroom with two brass beds, a bath room, and a closet that was larger than any stateroom I had every occupied in crossing before. To be sure there was no hat water in the bath room but the steward brought us hot water for shaving and washing every morning. The stateroom was cooled with artificial air and we had every comfort-far beyond what I could afford in peace times. As a a matter of fact, every man in the unit was far better cared for than he could hope to get if he were paying his own way. In spite of this there was dissatisfaction amoung the men who had never crossed before.

We had regular and excellent meals. We were given a printed menu with each meal and until we reached the Irish coast we could have as much food as we wanted. Once on the English side we were told we were on rations-the menu disappeared and there were no second orders.

There was a band concert every morning and afternoon and an orchestra played in the smoking room from 8 to 10 p.m.

We had the freedom of the ship with the exceptions of the main dining room. This was closed and in fact the more elegant arts of the boat were protected with burlap etc.

The usual games were played and there was dancing and cards in the evening, the usual betting on the run that was made for the day. In fact no one seemed to think of danger and every one seemed bent upon having the very best kind of a time. There is no question but what the presence of 200 nurses made every difference in that voyage. Men lost there heads, discipline was much more lax than it ever could be on the ordinary commercial liner and all because the higher officers were the chief offenders.

When we finally arrived in England four officers were court marshaled and five nurses were sent back to the United States.

The greatest hardship in the eyes of the men was the order requiring everyone to be off the decks and inside the ship at 8 p.m. And this order was promulgated in order to have the ship dark and sun down and with no intention of making things disagreeable for the passengers.

Taking everything into consideration it was a wonderful voyage. We were never in serious danger of submarines, every one seemed bent upon having the very best kind of a time with no thought of the morrow. The majority had never crossed before and had no idea of what was before them More than this the majority were men in the ordinary station of life that were feeling something for the first time. Looking back upon it now, when everything is over and I can truthfully say it was one of the pleasant experiences of the whole war.

From MS-397, Box 1, Folder 9. To read the diary in its entirety, visit Rauner Special Collections Library and ask to see the Harry Goodall papers (MS-397).

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A Dartmouth Doctor in WWI

August 7, 1918

Another very hot day. 
At 8.30 a.m. we were told that we would move along some time this evening. We were forbidden to write, telephone, telegraph, or to communicate with the outside world in any way.
At 5.30 p.m. our baggage was all ready outside the barracks. 
We expected to leave at 11 p.m.
At 8 p.m. we were told to lie down and get what sleep we could. 
By this time it was said that we would start at 2 a.m.
We were all packed up and of course had to sleep on the springs of the bed and with most of our clothes. 
It was so hot that we could not sleep and so excited over leaving that sleep [sic.] We had orders to keep absolutely quiet and there was hardly a sound to be heard. 
At 2 a.m. I was still awake when the thunder storm came. After this it was much cooler and I fell asleep. 
We were awakened at 4 a.m. and told to hurry.
We washed our faces rather hastily and got out in front of the barrack. 
We stood there talking and waiting until 5.15 when we were ordered to fall in.
We marched to the station – about a mile away.
We were dressed in our blouses. We carried our haversack on our backs – and in it two days rations. We wore our medicine belts and canteen. We carried on our arm our coat, an overcoat, and a rain coat. 
In all there must have been a good 60 to 75 pounds weight.
It was hot and we were very quickly bathed in perspiration. 
It was just at daybreak and as we started we could see a solid line of kaki filling the winding path to the station. It looked very much like the snake dances at the end of a football game but very much slower in its motion. 
About 3000 men left the camp that morning and we were near the end of the line. No wonder we say this long line. 
At 6 we were at the station – hot and tired and hungry.

All the officers of the B.H. 51 were crowded into an ordinary coach, and when we had deposited all the things we were carrying the car was well filled. 
At 6.50 a.m. the train started and we were very shortly served a breakfast of lemonade and cheese sandwiches.
The train was very hot. The boys raised the devil.
We made very slow time. 
As the train stopped at the various stations the enlisted men were throwing letters out of the windows to the civilians asking them to mail them. 
As we reached Camp Mills there were numbers of airplanes flying about, some coming very close to the train. 
We arrived at Long Island City at 10.30 a.m.
We marched to the ferry, where the boat was waiting but had to line up and wait for 20 minutes. 
We were standing just in front of the Red Cross Station. 
We wanted to go in and get something to eat as by this time we were all starved. However we were ordered not to break rank. 
Tucker went in and ate. The Red Cross did not come out and give us coffee or anything. 
I doubt if this action on the part of the Red Cross will ever be forgotten by the men. We had been fed up by the part that the Red Cross played in the war. We had seen the posters that were put up at the time of the drives for this organization, we had seen the moving pictures of the wonderful things they were doing for the boys, and we had read the papers. 

It is somewhat difficult to keep patients [sic.] when we found they had made us pay an exhorbant [sic.] price for coffee on the way to camp. 
Once on the ferry the hungry stomachs prompted the brain to give free expression – and there was more ahead. 
I doubt if any of the boys that stood in line that morning and saw the coffee steaming and the food on the shelves ever had a better opinion of the Red Cross than they had at that moment. 
In about 20 minutes we were aboard, and promptly started. 
Once more it was a relief to get a breeze from the water. The harbor was filled with activity. Ferries were plying back and forth, brown with crowded kaki, camouflaged vessels were everywhere loading and unloading, whistles were blowing, people were leaning out of windows waving handkerchiefs, etc. 
And with it all we were hungry – had it not been so we would have enjoyed it more. 
The ferry docked at 12 but we did not get off until 1.30 p.m. 
Just why the delay no now knows but I suppose because the Olymphic, the boat we were to sail on did not want to give us lunch. 
In any event by the time we were on the dock we were informed that lunch was over on the boat but that the Red Cross would give us something, cheerful news!
Soon after we lined up and took the bread line. The R.C. gave us a glass of milk and one bun – a hell of a lunch after such and original breakfast. More than this they watched the line to see that we did not repeat. 

At 2.30 p.m. we were aboard the ship, hot, dirty, hungry, sore.
I had been wearing my boots for more than 24 hours and that disturbed me more than the hunger.
We were then assigned to our staterooms and when I found that Quackenboss and I were assigned to the Louis XV suite, all my troubles disappeared. 
We had a large room with two brass beds, a private bath and a large closet. Such luxury I never expected. 
My first effort was to get the boots off, then I took a cold salt shower. There was nothing but salt water in the bath room and if one is familiar with the water in New York Harbor they can readily understand that I needed a bath if I had the courage to take one. 
However as dirty as the water was it was the first refreshing thing I had had for some time. 
After this I sat about for some time with noting on, arranged my baggage etc. then put on as little in the way of clothes as I possibly could and went on deck. The heat was sickening but on the upper deck it was tolerable. 
We were not allowed to leave the ship. 
Late in the afternoon a paper boy came aboard and sold his papers at 5 cents a copy.
At 6 p.m. we had a very nice dinner and all that we wanted. 
We were given a printed menu, which fact impressed us. 
By this time I realized that things on the Olympic were about as they were in peace times – including the tips. 
We played cards in the smoking room in the evening.
I turned in at 9.30 and

From MS-397, Box 1, Folder 8. To read the diary in its entirety, visit Rauner Special Collections Library and ask to see the Harry Goodall papers (MS-397).

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A Dartmouth Doctor in WWI

July 31, 1918

At 7 a.m. I looked out of the window and we were going through Philadelphia. 
It was cloudy and very cool, in fact I had pulled the blanket over me in the night.
From here we went over the B.&O., Phila. & Reading, and Central Ry. of N.J. By this time we had been informed that we were going to Camp Upton, N.Y. Tucker also told us that up to this time even he did not know where we were going. 
We had breakfast—cold egg, jam, bread. The ham had given out. 
We arrived at Jersey City at 9.40 a.m. 
Here we had to transfer the baggage to the ferry and it was about 10.30 when the ferry started.
It was a delight to see the water front and to smell salt water once more. Once the ferry started the wind was so strong and so cold after the heat of Ga. we were all chilled and were obliged to put our overcoats on.
We arrived at Long Island City at 11 a.m. and here we were met by the Red Cross and they gave us a scanty lunch of deviled ham sandwiches and coffee. 
We entrained and left at 12.46 p.m. 
We arrived at Camp Upton at 3 p.m. 
Insofar as I could see no one was expecting us and we waited about the station for some time and then trucks arrived to take us to the Camp. 
We had been on the train three days, there was no opportunity to bathe and we all felt extremely dirty.
We were taken to the barrack that was to be our quarters. 
It was tagged 606. There could be no question but what at some time it had been the ward for venereal disease.
We went in – it was dirty filthy, it took some time for us to accommodate ourselves. However war is war and we put the men to work cleaning it up, forgot the past and accepted our new home – hell of a place for physicians. 

From MS-397, Box 1, Folder 8. To read the diary in its entirety, visit Rauner Special Collections Library and ask to see the Harry Goodall papers (MS-397).

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